A/N: Here's an almost-1000 word drabble for you, LOL...

In return, please review if you're reading this – I'd love to hear from all of you!

Exchanging Christmas presents had begun with the children. Thankfully his nephews and niece were all delighted with what he had given them: Henry (who fancied himself an explorer) was highly pleased with the silver compass and book of maps, John (who was just learning how to ride and greatly enjoying it) had loved his new riding boots and whip, George was already happily playing with his new set of marbles and Bella was delighted with her new doll, and he was sure that baby Emma appreciated her new toys, even if she could not express it to him in as many words.

The adult Emma, who had happened to be near him while Bella was opening the present, had shot him a playful smile. 'Oh dear,' she said, 'I believe Bella has opened my present by mistake.'

He could not help colouring slightly even as he laughed. 'Emma, that was three years ago, and I have not done anything like it since.' Then he sighed. 'Am I ever going to live that down?'

Emma had smiled over her shoulder as she had walked away to give John and Isabella the presents she had gotten for them. 'Oh, I think not,' she said. 'You have known me all my life and know all about my freaks and nonsense; it is my misfortune that you have been grown up and sensible ever since I can remember. I must therefore carefully preserve whatever memory I have of your lapses, whenever I am lucky enough to witness them.'

Was he really as old as that speech made him sound? Grown up and sensible ever since she could remember... Well, it was true, he supposed. He had been nineteen or twenty around the time when she would have begun to retain her memories. But still it did not feel like he was all that many years her senior. She had always been such a precocious child, had always seemed somewhat older than her years; and he, being a bachelor and therefore not evolving from the additional responsibilities of being a husband and father, had felt as if he were ten years younger than he was for a while now.

It could also be explained by the fact that she had been his intellectual equal for some time now, and the gap between them had narrowed considerably. Or so he felt; he wondered if she could feel that shift too, or if he was still the same stuffy older family friend to her.

He was rather glad at the next moment to be jolted out of this rather depressing train of thought as Emma called his name. When he came to her side, she handed him a cylindrical package wrapped festively. However, she said nothing save for wishing him a Merry Christmas, and stood silently, watching almost anxiously as he began to open it, highly curious to know what she had given him.

When he uncovered the cylindrical storage tube, he knew it must be one of her sketches or paintings, and he wondered what it was of, and when she had done it. The only one he had known her to have done recently was of Harriet Smith, and he was fairly sure she was not presenting him with a watercolour of Harriet.

He unrolled the painting with a curiosity all alive to see it, and was astonished to see that it was a portrait of himself, from the torso upwards against the background of Hartfield's drawing room. He clearly had not been looking straight at her when she had been taking the likeness, and he was instead looking a little to the side, with a small smile on his face as he listened to someone – presumably Mr. Woodhouse – speaking.

He was impressed; it was undoubtedly her best painting yet. The likeness was almost absolute, and her observant eye had caught certain things in his posture and expression which told the viewer more certainly than mere preciseness of feature that this was a portrait of him. And – best of all – she had presented him as he was, as she saw him, without altering a single feature, without changing or 'improving' anything. Finally she seemed to have learned that the best likenesses were the truthful ones.

A warm smile spread across his face and he looked up to see her biting her lip, anxiously awaiting his verdict. 'It's wonderful, Emma,' he said, 'truly. The likeness is almost perfect, and your composition and style are very well done as always.' She breathed a sigh of relief and her face glowed in delight at his praise. His smile widened into a grin. 'I just have one question – when did you take the sketch? I don't recall sitting for you.'

Emma raised a playful eyebrow. 'Ah, Mr. Knightley, you have always refused to sit for me, so I found I had to take you by stealth. It was done one of the times you came to call on us a while before Christmas. While you were talking to Father, I made a quick draft, and used that as a point of reference – but it was mostly done from memory.'

Suddenly he remembered the occasion – it had been that day when he had been frantically trying to think of what to give Emma himself. 'I thought you were working on Harriet's portrait,' he said.

Emma laughed. 'I see I had nothing to fear – I was afraid you knew what I was upto, you looked over at me so often.'

He smiled. 'I was actually trying to think of what to get you for Christmas.'

'So what did you get me?'

He walked over to the tree to get it and returned to her. 'See for yourself,' he said, handing the wrapped present to her.

He hoped she would like it – he was sure she would like it. After all, they were partial old friends.